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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24136729">Like a Thousand Stars Falling Down, There's No More Tears to Cry</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mike_H/pseuds/Mike_H'>Mike_H</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Naruto</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:35:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,017</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24136729</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mike_H/pseuds/Mike_H</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a (sort of) rewrite of a <i>Katekyou Hitman Reborn</i> fic I wrote in 2011 called <i>A Single Answer to A Million Questions.</i> Anyone who's read that (long since deleted) fic may recognize the concept and some of the dialog in the first chapter, but that's where the similarities end.</p>
    </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>89</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>122</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Lie</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a (sort of) rewrite of a <i>Katekyou Hitman Reborn</i> fic I wrote in 2011 called <i>A Single Answer to A Million Questions.</i> Anyone who's read that (long since deleted) fic may recognize the concept and some of the dialog in the first chapter, but that's where the similarities end.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>If I could build a time machine, I'd go back to when we first met.</p><p>Back to Tuesday night, to the poorly lit gas station, to the way he looked at me from beneath the brim of his baseball cap.</p><p>I'd go back to when he smiled at me.</p><p>And I would walk away.</p><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><p>I have lost my fucking mind.</p><p>I realize this, staring at the hoodie he was wearing the day we met, this bundle of green and gray in my hand.</p><p>I've worn this hoodie a million fucking times. I've washed it a million fucking times.</p><p>But it still smells like him.</p><p>They tell you that crazy people don't <i>know</i> they're crazy, but I <i>have</i> to be.</p><p>Because I look at this hoodie and I remember.</p><p>The way it looked on him. His scent. The warmth of his body. The softness of the fabric, the beat of his heart beneath.</p><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><p>"<i>Four years</i>," I tell Hashirama. "<i>Four</i> fucking <i>years,</i> and I don't know how much of it was <i>true.</i>"</p><p>Even sitting here — on my regular seat at Hashirama's bar — makes me think of Obito and all the times we spent getting wasted. Every fucking thing makes me think of him. The bottle of Jameson behind the counter. The dumbass commercial on the tv he used to love making fun of. The way he used to run his finger along the rim of his whiskey glass.</p><p>Hashirama's fingers rake through his hair. His tone is oddly subdued. "I think you <i>do</i> know, Madara."</p><p>But I don't.</p><p>I think about those years and all I see is a lie.</p><p>I see Obito looking at me like there's nothing else worth looking at.</p><p>I see him making me believe that I mattered.</p><p>"He really did love you," Hashirama says.</p><p>But that doesn't make it better.</p><p>These days, the anger's always there. Like it's permanently seared into my veins, this violent thing, raging against the prison of my body. It wants to get out. <i>Has</i> to.</p><p>I think about Obito and I can't remember a time where I wasn't angry.</p><p>"Then why the <i>fuck</i> was he fucking someone else?"</p><p>For once, Hashirama has nothing to say.</p><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><p>I've always needed Hashirama. He's my best friend. He's everything Obito wasn't.</p><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><p>Once, Obito asked me to marry him.</p><p>We'd been together a year. I'd said no.</p><p>I've never wanted to get married.</p><p>My parents were married. They smiled at each other. They were civil. My mother would do all the cliché things a wife would for her husband. She'd make his meals. Thank him for picking up the milk. Kiss him on the cheek and go to sleep in a different bedroom.</p><p>I don't know why my parents stayed married. Maybe it was some warped idea that every kid needs two parents. Maybe they just needed the tax breaks or a name to fill in the "in case of emergency, call…" sections.</p><p>I learned a long time ago that marriage was — and is — a lie.</p><p>But I wonder if things would've been different if I'd said yes.</p><p>I wonder if Obito was thinking of Rin when he asked me.</p><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><p>Rin is everything I'm not.</p><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><p>"It always begins with <i>once upon a time</i>," Kawarama announces one Wednesday night, carelessly dumping a stack of notebook paper onto the low coffee table in the middle of our living room.</p><p>He seats himself on the dark green <i>zabuton</i>, crossing his legs Indian style and cracking his knuckles. "And it always ends with <i>happily ever after</i>."</p><p>I take a drag of my cigarette, blow a perfect O in his direction. "Short story day?"</p><p>He nods. "Told my kids to write their own fairy tales. Funny how they always begin and end the same."</p><p>"It's second grade."</p><p>Kawarama taps his pen on top of the pile. "Still, there's something to be learned here, isn't there?"</p><p>I can't help but roll my eyes. Kawarama's always been the idealist, finding hope in everything. Sometimes, there is no hope. There isn't always a happy ending.</p><p>The day he heard about Obito and Rin, he'd dragged me from my barstool and shoved me out the door. "You're packing up your shit and moving in with me," is what he said and I didn't even try to argue.</p><p>It's not like I had anywhere else to go. We've lived together before. I only moved out because of Obito. Funny how Obito's also the reason I've moved back in.</p><p>The saddest part about it was how I could fit my life into one fucking suitcase. But maybe nothing in that house was ever truly mine. Including Obito.</p><p>What a fucking farce. I grab the first essay and read, "<i>Once upon a time, there lived a beautiful princess in a castle under the sea.</i>" I stare at Kawarama. "You're kidding, right? What could I possibly learn from this? I don't need to read the rest to know how it ends."</p><p>I wave my hand and ash falls onto the paper, blurring the name of the child responsible for constructing such a laughable fantasy. "Let me guess — "</p><p>Kawarama hurriedly snatches the essay, shakes the ash into a now empty noodle carton. "Watch it, jackass! You'll burn a fucking hole through it!"</p><p>I roll my eyes. "I'm sure the brat will live. What the fuck does it matter? It's always the same story anyway — Gallant Prince rescues Helpless Princess from the clutches of her Evil Stepmother, <i>bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.</i> And you have to grade — what? — <i>twenty</i> of these? Fucking sucks to be you."</p><p>Kawarama pouts in a way that's both annoying and endearing all at once. "You're such a fucking pessimist, Mads. You know you could write your own happy ending too."</p><p>"I'm a <i>realist.</i> And how's <i>this</i> for a story? Once upon a time, my boyfriend fell in love with his childhood friend. They lived happily ever after. The fucking End."</p><p>"I wasn't talking about Obito."</p><p>I flick my cigarette at him.</p><p>Kawarama scrambles to put it out. "Fuck! You're such a fucking dick! Why won't you give my brother a chance?"</p><p>"Hashirama's married, you idiot."</p><p>"Don't be stupid. You know which one I meant."</p><p>I look away. "He's not interested."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Song</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Funny how you could spend years getting to know someone only to find out you don't know them at all.</p>
<p>Kawarama calls me a pessimist, but it's not like I haven't tried the starry-eyed, idealistic shtick. I believed in shit like <i>true love</i> once. I chased my own kinda fairy tale.</p>
<p>Time is a weird thing. They tell you that four years is enough to know you've found the one. They tell you four years isn't long enough.</p>
<p>I wonder how much time is truly enough? How many moments do you need to know that this is real? That you won't fall apart just 'cause you can't agree on the definition of <i>forever.</i></p>
<p>Hashirama told me that he knew Mito was the one 'cause he felt <i>forever</i> about her.</p>
<p>Maybe Obito and I didn't have forever but I thought we were <i>happy.</i></p>
<p>But happy people don't go 'round fucking their best friends when they're supposed to be in a relationship with someone else.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>I like the sound my boots make when they sink into snow.</p>
<p>Winters here are nothing like the kind I'm used to. Even amid the rhythm of the rolling waves, everything's quiet. I would like to think that this is what peace would look like.</p>
<p>This familiar unfamiliarity. Snow upon sand and the kinda quiet that makes me too fucking aware of my chaotic heart, my ceaseless thoughts. Of Tobirama by my side, lighting his cigarette.</p>
<p>Tobirama is unreachable.</p>
<p>There's probably only three feet between us, but it may as well be a fucking chasm.</p>
<p>He is my unfamiliar familiarity. Being with him feels like home. Feels like I'm lost in a place I don't know.</p>
<p>Even when I don't look at him, when I try to time my heartbeats to the ocean's song, I see him.</p>
<p>The white of his hair. The set of his jaw. The sharp lines of his face. I know the way his fingers look curled around his lighter. Know the shape of his lips around the golden filter of his cigarette.</p>
<p>The breadth of his shoulders. The way he stands, straight-backed, relaxed, focused, a neverending series of contradictions.</p>
<p>I've been watching Tobirama for so long, everything about him is burned into my mind like a brand.</p>
<p>I hate this. His hand in my line of sight, his cigarette, an offering.</p>
<p>I take it. I never resist, even when I hate how out of place it makes me feel. Between my fingers, this cigarette looks wrong. An alien thing.</p>
<p>I take a drag, pulling smoke into my lungs. I hold it, just a second longer than I would with my own brand. I want to savor this and I hate myself for it.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>I like the taste of his cigarettes when they've been between his lips.</p>
<p>I love the scent of them upon his clothes.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>I know it sounds childish, but I've always liked how a person's breath mists in the cold. These little clouds of exhalation, forming, dissipating, temporal.</p>
<p>It makes me think about time and how it makes everything fragile. How quickly things could end, even as they begin.</p>
<p>It makes me think there's no such thing as <i>forever.</i></p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>We don't talk about Obito much.</p>
<p>We never really did, even back when I believed I was happy.</p>
<p>I think that Tobirama never truly liked him.</p>
<p>But I'm not delusional enough to believe that has anything to do with me.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>I don't like what hope does to people.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>Tobirama is both a magician and an artist.</p>
<p>Here — in the den of his beach house — is a place that feels like home.</p>
<p>Music is a language we both understand.</p>
<p>I like the way his fingers dance along the piano keys, crafting melodies that beat tattoos upon my heart.</p>
<p>I love the way he looks, lost in a world of his making.</p>
<p>I've never been the greatest judge of character, but I'd like to think that this is Tobirama at his truest. To know his melodies would be to know his self.</p>
<p>When he plays, he is all memory and instinct. He is honesty in its rawest form.</p>
<p>He is out of my league.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>I study the spines of the books upon his shelf. Names I don't read. Titles I will never remember.</p>
<p>I learn these pieces of his life.</p>
<p>I watch him, even when I am not looking at him at all.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Fractured</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This is how it happens.</p><p>He doesn't say, "It's not what it looks like."</p><p>It's <i>exactly</i> what it looks like and we both know it.</p><p>I don't cry or scream or beat the shit out of him.</p><p>I just leave.</p><p>He doesn't come after me.</p><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><p>I hate how easy it comes — the bad memories.</p><p>My mind is a mess of fog and fragments. The good ones are a blur. The bad, vivid. I remember every detail, like a movie reel of random moments.</p><p>I remember Obito and that stupid baseball cap. Obito making me laugh. <i>Scene change.</i> His mouth, sliding against mine. <i>Scene change.</i> The arch of Rin's back as she rides him. <i>Scene change.</i> His fingers caressing my cheek. <i>Scene change.</i> His hands stroking her sides.</p><p>
  <i>Scene change and change and change.</i>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><p>I am frozen and the world goes on without me.</p><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><p>This is how it happens.</p><p>One day, you're just this stupid kid falling for a guy who makes you believe he gives a damn.</p><p>One day, you learn to stop believing.</p><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><p>I hate how easily one bad moment undoes thousands of good ones.</p><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><p>Hashirama says I'm still in shock and haven't recovered. Says, it's so much harder 'cause Obito was my first. Says, I need to talk or scream or cry or hit something, just so I can let it all out.</p><p>But there's nothing to let out. My body is a bullet case wrapped around emptiness. There's nothing left to feel.</p><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><p>"I hate when you do that," Kawarama says, around a mouthful of pizza.</p><p>I raise my eyebrow at him and he sighs. I know that he hates when I make him explain shit he knows I already know.</p><p>"You're thinking about him again."</p><p>I remember sitting at Hashirama's bar, trying to drown myself in Grey Goose from the inside out. Remember not tasting it. Not feeling the burn in my throat, my belly. Drinking and drinking to fill the emptiness.</p><p>"I hate that he matters so much," Kawarama says, in the way that lets me know he's remembering too.</p><p>I can still see the blood upon his knuckles. I remember the sound of his fist colliding with Obito's face. Shards of glass upon the floor. The broken pieces of the desk lamp, like us, irreparable.</p><p>"I hate it too," I say. But I can't stop remembering.</p><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><p>I can't remember the moment Obito stopped loving me.</p><p>But maybe that's 'cause he never did.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Collide</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Pick a color," Tobirama says, fingers resting upon piano keys. His hands look like they belong there, like the piano is an extension of himself.</p><p>This is good. Familiar. I could use a little <i>familiar</i> right now.</p><p>"Blue," I say, because it feels right.</p><p>And Tobirama plays.</p><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><p>I've always hated pointless noise.</p><p>I grew up with it, days filled with useless chatter about work, the weather, groceries. My parents talked a lot for people who had absolutely nothing to say.</p><p>I hate when someone tries to fill the silence just so they wouldn't have to face the lie.</p><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><p>These days, I find myself spending more and more time with Tobirama.</p><p>We sit on the porch, messing around with our guitars. He teaches me <i>Collide.</i> I play badly but he doesn't laugh.</p><p>He doesn't say, time will erase the hurt. Doesn't say, I need to get over it.</p><p>He simply says, "I'm here."</p><p>And that's enough.</p><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><p>I like the way Tobirama says <i>worlds</i> with his simple economy of words.</p><p>I love how nothing he says is ever pointless.</p><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><p>I hated living with my parents. Hated how fake everything was. I remember wishing they'd get a divorce the way Kawarama's parents did. Remember wondering why they didn't.</p><p>Life with them was a charade, and I spent years waiting for the breakdown that never came.</p><p>They pretended to be worried and upset when I moved out.</p><p>I didn't pretend to care.</p><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><p>Running on the beach is harder than it looks, but Tobirama makes it look easy.</p><p>This is what I'm used to. Tobirama makes all the worthwhile things look easy.</p><p>And I'm always chasing him, falling behind.</p><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><p>Here's the thing. You're this starry-eyed kid, following this guy around thinking he's everything you wanna be.</p><p>Then you wake up one day and realize he's everything you wanna be <i>with.</i></p><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><p>"I wish I could get a do-over."</p><p>I tell Tobirama this, lying in the sand, feeling waves gently lapping against the soles of my feet. The sun kinda hurts my eyes, but I try to keep them open anyway.</p><p>Truth is, I wish for a lot of things. I wish my parents were different people. I wish Obito and I had never met. I wish I had never fallen in love.</p><p>I wish that Tobirama would see me.</p><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><p>These days, I wait for <i>my</i> breakdown too.</p><p>But Tobirama is here, and I'm something like okay.</p><p>Even when I'm not okay at all.</p><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><p>Tobirama speaks the way his brothers don't.</p><p>Hashirama always speaks <i>big,</i> the way he is, the way his gestures are. He speaks like life is this thing to be savored.</p><p>Kawarama speaks with boldness, uncensored. Uncaring, but not thoughtless. He speaks like he doesn't know what bitterness feels like.</p><p>Tobirama speaks with his hands, his eyes, his melodies. Speaks with meaning.</p><p>He plays <i>blue</i> for me.</p><p>His hands, upon the keys. His eyes, upon mine.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Truth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>We spend New Year's Eve at The Bar.</p>
<p>That's literally what Hashirama's bar is called. Six years ago, he'd asked me for ideas. This was all I had, and I'd never let him know, but a part of me's pleased he used the name I came up with instead of laughing like I expected him to.</p>
<p>It's nice, being here. I've only been legally allowed to drink for a year, but who cares about shit like that when your best friend lets you have whatever you want? I'd totally have been the envy of my high school friends, if I'd had any.</p>
<p>I've never been able to get along with people my age, but it's alright. I like the friends I've got well enough.</p>
<p>The jukebox is playing <i>Hold On.</i> Mito shouts to be heard over it. "Best thing that ever happened to you!"</p>
<p>"Saratoga!" is what Hashirama and Kawarama yell in unison. It isn't even midnight, and already they're drunk off their asses. It's the one night every year Hashirama spoils us with the good shit.</p>
<p>Mito hits him on the arm with her party horn. "You were supposed to say <i>me.</i>"</p>
<p>Hashirama only grins unapologetically. I like seeing him like this, at ease, content with his own little corner of the world. He's been tense since Obito — they all have — and I'm trying to have a good time for my friends' sakes.</p>
<p>Kawarama's date of the week, Ino, leans across the table and asks me, "What happened in Saratoga?"</p>
<p>"We do not talk about Saratoga," is what I say, in my best Tyler Durden voice, which is actually pretty fucking terrible.</p>
<p>Mito keeps hitting Hashirama with that party horn until he laughingly pleads with her to stop. Our eyes lock and — opportunistic traitor that he is — he doesn't hesitate to throw me under the bus. "Madara hasn't answered yet!"</p>
<p>Now everyone's staring at me expectantly. This is the hardest part. It's not like I can't lie, but my friends have known me long enough to know when I <i>am.</i> And it's shit like this that makes this happy mask so much harder to maintain. I don't want to tell them the truth, but I hafta say something anyway, so I try to pick the next best thing.</p>
<p>But then I hear <i>her.</i></p>
<p>"Sorry we're late! You know how it gets on New Year's Eve."</p>
<p>It's Terumi. All immaculate hair and immaculate clothes and that dazzling smile that makes me wanna punch her perfect teeth in.</p>
<p>She's not alone.</p>
<p>Tobirama's here, and he's got his arm around her.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>Best thing that ever happened to me: falling in love.</p>
<p>Worst thing that ever happened to me: falling in love.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>Terumi is everything I'm not.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>I hate how I'm living all the clichés.</p>
<p>My boyfriend cheated on me with his best friend.</p>
<p>I'm in love with my best friends' brother.</p>
<p>The guy I love is in love with <i>his</i> best friend.</p>
<p>I'm beginning to think the concept of <i>best friends</i> is too fucking overrated.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>Maybe I'm just doomed to fall in love with all the wrong people.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>These days, though. I'm beginning to wonder if I even understand what love means. How do you know the difference between <i>forever</i> and <i>wanting</i> to believe it's forever?</p>
<p>Everyone's got their own version of it, and I can't even tell which is real anymore.</p>
<p>Hashirama and Mito love like <i>fun</i> and <i>steady.</i> They love like passion. Like security. Like <i>warmth</i> and <i>right</i> and <i>everlasting.</i></p>
<p>Kawarama loves like he's overflowing with it, like he'd <i>die</i> if he stops giving.</p>
<p>And Tobirama. He loves like it's his nature, like it's all he knows. He loves like protection. Like adoration. Like <i>art.</i></p>
<p>But this is what I know.</p>
<p>Love is a lie. It's a picture perfect mask. It's an illusion. And maybe if the illusion feels real enough, you just keep pretending 'cause it's all you've got.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>The jukebox is playing <i>I'm So Excited.</i></p>
<p>Ino jumps up, fist pumping. "Hell yeah!" She downs her tequila shot. Grabs my hand and yanks me onto the dance floor. "This is my jam, baby!" She's all wolf's grin and diamond eyes. She's unfamiliar.</p>
<p>She's exactly what I need right now.</p>
<p>I love to dance. I suck, but I love it anyway, and Ino's the kind of effortlessly brilliant that makes us work. She moves in a way that gives my awkwardness a place, like this is how we're supposed to look and it's alright. Maybe even kinda cool. She guides me into twirling her. Spins and laughs and whoops. I love how infectious she is. Her energy. Her joy. Her give-no-fucks demeanor.</p>
<p>"Hey, there it is," she says, looking right at me.</p>
<p>I look over my shoulder and she laughs, grabbing my chin and turning my face toward her. "Your smile, silly," she grins. "It's the first real one I've seen all night."</p>
<p>And just like that, my smile fades.</p>
<p>The jukebox is playing <i>Nightshift.</i></p>
<p>Ino steps closer and we fall into a slow dance. "So what's up with you and Mei?" Her voice is all affected nonchalance, and immediately I realize she's been waiting to ask me that all night.</p>
<p>My hands tense around her waist. "What do you mean?"</p>
<p>Ino's gaze upon me is knife-sharp. I know that Kawarama wouldn't have told her anything, but I wonder how much she's figured out. "You seem to hate her."</p>
<p>"I don't." It's not a lie, but it's not exactly a truth. My feelings for Terumi are complicated. She's the kind of person who's impossible to hate. Which makes me sort of <i>do,</i> anyway.</p>
<p>Ino stares at me, eyebrow arched in a way that says she thinks I'm full of shit.</p>
<p>I sigh. "It's not like we're friends or anything. But I don't hate her. Not really."</p>
<p>"Because of Tobirama?"</p>
<p>"Because he's in love with her. And I want him to be happy."</p>
<p>"But you wish it'd be <i>you</i> he's happy with."</p>
<p>A groan of exasperation leaves my lips. "Am I <i>that</i> fucking obvious?"</p>
<p>Ino smiles. "I'm just good at reading the signs."</p>
<p>Truth is, I don't know why I'm telling her any of this. We're practically strangers and I've never been the kinda guy to trust someone I barely know with my emotions.</p>
<p>Maybe it's because she's safe. I know that by this time next week, there'll be another girl in Kawarama's arms, in his bed. Maybe it's knowing I'll never see her again that makes me think it's alright to talk about this shit, 'cause I don't have to worry about judgment or concern. I don't care what she thinks of me.</p>
<p>Ino's brows are furrowed. "I don't think he's in love with her, though."</p>
<p>Somehow, that annoys me. I hate that she thinks she reads Tobirama better than I do. "How would <i>you</i> know?"</p>
<p>She rolls her eyes. "Because I know what <i>in love</i> looks like, and that's not it."</p>
<p>I can't tell if I hate or love how smug she is. How self-assured. She acts like she has it all figured out, like she sees through me, and the thing I hate the most is how much she discerns with those pretty blue eyes.</p>
<p>She is part <i>what I want to be,</i> part <i>what I want to be with.</i></p>
<p>And all that makes me feel is angry.</p>
<p>At Ino, for getting me to feel all this shit I'm trying my damnedest to bury.</p>
<p>At Terumi, for existing. For being practically perfect. A better partner for Tobirama than I could ever hope to be.</p>
<p>I'm mad at Tobirama for the way he looks at her. The way he smiles, how he doesn't have to hide who he is around her.</p>
<p>I'm angry at Obito for betraying me. For turning me into all the things I hate.</p>
<p>I hate how anger wars with emptiness wars with bitterness wars with hope inside me.</p>
<p>My jaw hurts from the way my teeth are gritting so hard. My hands tighten around Ino's sides, but she doesn't flinch. And still, I have to know. "What does it look like?"</p>
<p>The jukebox is playing <i>Harden My Heart.</i></p>
<p>Ino says, "You."</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>This is another thing I hate.</p>
<p>How excited everyone looks, counting down to midnight.</p>
<p>I'll never understand all this hype about the new year. You make all these plans, all these resolutions, and everything stays the same. Life still sucks. Everyone's still mediocre. And you do it all over again next year. 'Round and 'round like a fucking Möbius strip.</p>
<p>This crowd. This energy. This <i>hope.</i></p>
<p>It's suffocating. I want to throw up. I want to break something. Like the glass in my hand. Like Obito's face.</p>
<p>Everyone's a parody of those shiny, happy people you see in commercials. Everyone's got a drink or a noisemaker or a partner they're clinging to. They're all yelling and the music's still going and everything fucking hurts.</p>
<p>It is here, surrounded by these strangers and my friends, that I feel adrift. Alone.</p>
<p>I think that I could sink into the floor, disappear and no one would notice. I don't want anyone to notice.</p>
<p>But someone does.</p>
<p>He is suddenly behind me, grabbing my arms. His grip is an anchor. The heat of him, against my back. His mouth, against my ear.</p>
<p>"Let's get out of here," Tobirama says. He steers me toward the door.</p>
<p>I let him.</p>
<p>
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</p><hr/><p>
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</p>
<p>Tobirama is always warm.</p>
<p>
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</p><hr/><p>
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</p>
<p>We walk until we find a near empty street. It's hard to do in the city on New Year's, but we find one that has enough space for me to finally breathe.</p>
<p>We munch on empanadas. Tobirama hands me his <i>desayuno colombiano.</i> I hand him my Greek spinach pie.</p>
<p>We don't talk about how good the food is. We simply eat, in silence.</p>
<p>I listen to the cadence of our footsteps upon the sidewalk. The sound of paper wrappers crumpling between our fingers. Someone's car starting up. Snatches of conversation and drunken laughter.</p>
<p>We walk, our arms nearly touching. Our closeness thrills and disconcerts me as our distance does. This close, I want him. I want to press my arm against his. Want to feel the heat traveling from his skin to mine, even through our coat sleeves, our gloved fingers.</p>
<p>I can feel my pulse in my throat, this frantically beating thing, trying to get out. Sweat on my palms. I feel Tobirama's eyes on me and all at once, I can and can't breathe.</p>
<p>I want to know what he sees when he looks at me. Want him to know that I see everything when I look at <i>him.</i></p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>If only there were a way to stop time. Or to let time go on without us.</p>
<p>I want to stay in this moment longer. It's not the way I want him, but it's the best I could hope for.</p>
<p>Just once, I want to be selfish. I want <i>us,</i> in this space where only we exist, where all his attention is devoted to me.</p>
<p>Where I'm the only one that matters.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>We're smoking on my favorite rock formation in the park when Tobirama's phone chimes. I can tell by the look on his face who it is. It makes me hate how well I know him.</p>
<p>"It's Terumi, isn't it?" I'm trying to sound casual, but Tobirama's got this strange look in his eyes, so I don't think I'm convincing.</p>
<p>"She wants to know where I am," he says, typing something into his phone, before sliding it back into his pocket. He pulls smoke into his lungs, exhales. He's not getting up.</p>
<p>"Don't you have to take her home?"</p>
<p>"Told her to get a ride with someone else."</p>
<p>And I know it's the most stupid reaction in the world, but I can't help but blurt out, "Why?"</p>
<p>Tobirama's cigarette pauses midway to his lips. He looks at me and says, "Because I'd rather be here with you."</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>In the crowd, I was drowning, suffocating.</p>
<p>He was the only one who noticed.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Solitude</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I no longer count the days.</p>
<p>Being with Obito has taught me that time is irrelevant. I counted our moments. Our anniversaries. People tell you things like that matter, but they don't. They don't mean anything when your relationship is built upon fragility and deceit.</p>
<p>I don't count the days since we ended.</p>
<p>But I think it could've happened long before Rin.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>My parents are what I've never wanted to be.</p>
<p>I used to think they stayed married for my sake, but the truth is, I never really needed them just as they've never needed me.</p>
<p>Or rather, I needed them but they were never there. Not when it counted.</p>
<p>I realize now they're still together because they're afraid of being alone.</p>
<p>But they're the loneliest people I know.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>The thing I hate most about breaking up is this endless parade of <i>why.</i></p>
<p>Why did he leave me? Why did he choose her? Why was I not good enough?</p>
<p>I spend so much time asking why he fell in love with me in the first place. Or why I was stupid enough to believe that what we had was real.</p>
<p>I ask, but there are no answers.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>I remember Mito's arms tight around me. The way my head was pillowed upon her shoulder. The soothing motions of her hand caressing my hair.</p>
<p>I think she was waiting for me to cry.</p>
<p>But I didn't know how.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>How many days need to pass before he becomes a distant memory?</p>
<p>How long before I can think of him and no longer feel like there's something missing?</p>
<p>He's left a void I don't know how to fill.</p>
<p>
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</p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>It's not like I'm arrogant enough to believe I'm the only one hurting.</p>
<p>Some of my friends have been hurt before. I know Mito's been cheated on too. Kawarama's been rejected by the girl he'd asked to senior prom. He'd been crushing on her bad and she crushed his heart. Maybe that's why he doesn't do serious relationships.</p>
<p>I know that the people I love are no strangers to pain.</p>
<p>I wish there were a way to turn off our emotions. To just… <i>shut down</i> when shit gets too overwhelming.</p>
<p>I wish we could love, and still be whole.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p><hr/><p>
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</p>
<p>I don't remember when we ended. It's stupid, remembering dates like that, even if the bad things come easier than the good.</p>
<p>I've spent all this time believing it was over because of Rin, but maybe we've been nothing but a series of endings.</p>
<p>Maybe it was when I told him I never wanted to get married.</p>
<p>Maybe it was the time he lost his shit 'cause I broke the salsa jar, or when we sat across each other at the dining table and had nothing left to say.</p>
<p>Or maybe we fell apart long before that, back when he was a star and I was this kid who thought he could become my world.</p>
<p>
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</p><hr/><p>
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</p>
<p>I like driving around a lot, going nowhere. I love getting out of the city, watching the vehicles get sparser, eventually fading out till the engine and the road are my only companions.</p>
<p>It's nice, being able to think. I do a lot of thinking these days, but it's not like I can help it much. I've never been able to stop my brain from working overtime.</p>
<p>Thoughts come naturally when you're an only child growing up in a plastic family. It comes easy when no one notices you at school and the ones who do hate you.</p>
<p>It happens when you grow up watching a family that's so unlike yours, you spend all this time trying to fit in and knowing that though they love you, you're never really gonna be a part of them the way they're the most important parts of each other.</p>
<p>It happens when your admiration turns into a stupid little crush, when that crush turns to love, and the guy you love is so far out of your league, he may as well be on another planet.</p>
<p>Sometimes my thoughts get too much. Like they're banging around in my head, desperately trying to be heard. To be noticed.</p>
<p>Times like these all I can do is try to run. I can't run from myself — I've tried, and crashed and burned — but being out here makes me feel saner. Like I can get my mind to quiet, to be a little less frantic.</p>
<p>I think a lot about shit like relationships and choices and reversing time, but the thing is, I don't know where else I can go these days if not forward.</p>
<p>That's what it's like, being on the road. I can't drive backward 'cause it's just too damn hard. I could look back, put my car in reverse, but something's always gonna make me wanna look ahead again.</p>
<p>I love how driving around like this reminds me that the world's so much bigger than heartbreak. It's so much more than gas stations and whiskey and baseball caps. All that stupid shit that makes me think about his stupid smile and his stupid face and everything about us that's broken.</p>
<p>Being out here feels like freedom. And maybe that's an illusion like everything else, but it's the kind that makes me feel safe, and safe is good.</p>
<p>I could use a little more <i>safe</i> these days.</p>
<p>I can't remember the last time Obito made me feel that way. Every time I think of him all I feel is messed up.</p>
<p>But it's funny how this solitude makes me feel like I can bear it.</p>
<p>
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</p><hr/><p>
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</p>
<p>I could drive for hours. I like the way the wheel feels beneath my hands. The sound my tires make upon the road.</p>
<p>I like having the window down. It helps me breathe easier. Makes me feel like I'm part of this scene, miles of a seemingly endless highway stretched before me.</p>
<p>Out here, everything is muted. Serene. I like the thought of being endless. Nothing but streetlights and moonlight and shadow.</p>
<p>Out here, I can pretend like I'm getting away from it all. Leaving all my baggage behind, turning into someone else till no memory of my past self remains.</p>
<p>One day, I'm gonna figure out the words to describe how all this makes me feel. Emotions are weird. There're all these labels for them, but I think that — for the most part — they don't even begin to cover what anyone truly feels at any given moment.</p>
<p>I've been feeling so many things, I can't even tell them apart anymore. Maybe I should make up my own words for what this is. Maybe one day I'll have something concrete.</p>
<p>Whatever the fuck <i>this</i> is.</p>
<p>But I know it's not pain.</p>
<p>Or maybe it is, but it's the <i>right</i> kinda pain. The kind that feels like — in this moment — I'm made up of more than just <i>empty.</i></p>
<p>It's not loneliness, but it's the right kind of <i>alone.</i></p>
<p>I don't have concrete words for this, but whatever it is, it's good.</p>
<p>
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</p><hr/><p>
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</p>
<p>Couple hours later, I think I could get used to hearing something else. Something more than the road and my car and my unremitting thoughts.</p>
<p>I turn on the radio and one of Tobirama's songs comes on.</p>
<p>It's <i>blue.</i></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Over</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I still have the key.</p><p>I never did get the chance to return it. I have it in the keyhole, and I'm turning the handle before I realize I should be ringing the doorbell, waiting patiently for an invitation like I'm some old college buddy, some relative from out of town.</p><p>This is no longer my home.</p><p>But I know now, it never truly was.</p><p>It's the strangest thing, being here. It feels like I never left. And yet, it feels like everything has changed since I did.</p><p>The handle is half-turned. I am frozen, in this moment that stretches, seemingly interminable.</p><p>In my other hand, Obito's hoodie. The fabric against my palm, within the clench of my fingers, is as familiar to me as the front porch beneath the soles of my shoes.</p><p>No one knows I'm here. I couldn't tell them, afraid that talking about it would make me lose my nerve. This is something I have to do alone.</p><p>I release the handle, take a step back. Take a deep breath. Exhale.</p><p>I ring the bell.</p><p>
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</p>
<hr/>
<p>
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</p><p>I remember her smile. The way she looked at him like he was her whole universe.</p><p>I remember the way he looked at her and I remember thinking it was nothing like how he used to look at me.</p><p>But I was wrong.</p><p>It was so much more.</p><p>
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</p>
<hr/>
<p>
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</p><p>"Hi," Rin says, and it's awkward and surprised and apprehensive.</p><p>"Hey," I say, because it's all I've got.</p><p>We look at each other and I know she's as uncomfortable as I am. I wonder if she's feeling guilty. But it's not like she's got anything to be guilty about.</p><p>She's not the one who cheated on me.</p><p>She makes as if to cross her arms, but drops them to her sides like she has no idea what to do with them. "Your hair's gotten longer." Her smile seems sincere and fragile all at once. "It suits you."</p><p>I don't have time for this pointless small talk. All it does is remind me of loveless marriages and broken trust. "Is he here?"</p><p>Rin shakes her head. "You can come inside, if you'd like to wait. He'll only be — " She checks her watch. " — ten minutes?"</p><p>It hits me then, how much I want to see him, how badly I don't want to. I'm terrified. I don't know what I'd do if I saw him. If he looks at me in the way that's nothing like how he looks at her.</p><p>I hold out the hoodie. "I came to return this."</p><p>Rin's eyes travel to the crumpled green and gray fabric in my hand. She reaches for it, and there's something in her eyes when she takes it from me. Something inherently sad.</p><p>I feel the hoodie leaving my grasp and something inside me breaks. For a moment, I can't speak. My focus is bent upon that feeling inside me, this raw ache that goes marrow-deep. This nameless thing, shattering and shattering, reforming into something new and unfamiliar.</p><p>Rin stares at me, and I can't fully comprehend the look in her eyes, but it's gentle in the way I've always known her to be. She clutches the hoodie to her chest. She looks like she might cry. "Thank you."</p><p>I don't know what to say, so I turn and leave.</p><p>"Madara," she calls, when I've reached the bottom step.</p><p>I wait. I do not look at her.</p><p>"I'm sorry," she says. Her voice is thick with an emotion I cannot name.</p><p>I walk away.</p><p>
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</p>
<hr/>
<p>
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</p><p>I get into my car.</p><p>I keep driving and I don't look in my rearview mirror.</p><p>I just keep looking ahead, ahead, ahead.</p><p>
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</p>
<hr/>
<p>
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</p><p>He told me that hoodie was his favorite. He wore it all the time.</p><p>He's had it since he was twenty-two.</p><p>It was a gift from her.</p><p>
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</p>
<hr/>
<p>
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</p><p>My past is a ghost that clings to me like a dead lover.</p><p>It's a trail, made up of all the broken pieces of my heart. Pieces I've left with my parents. Obito. Rin. Tobirama.</p><p>I drive because I don't know where I'm going. But there's no mistaking what I'm running from.</p><p>I don't want this past. I don't want these broken pieces of my heart. I wish I could discard them, along the highway where they can be run over till there's nothing left of them but dust.</p><p>And all I am left with is this jagged, misshapen thing in my chest, unwhole, <i>alive.</i></p><p>I want time to keep ticking. And I don't want to be left behind.</p><p>
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</p>
<hr/>
<p>
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</p><p>I thought that I needed to see him.</p><p>That maybe if we looked each other in the eye, if we talked, I could find some closure.</p><p>But the truth is, I never needed him at all.</p><p>
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</p>
<hr/>
<p>
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</p><p>I don't know where I'm going until I <i>do.</i></p><p>
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</p>
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<p>
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</p><p>Tobirama looks at me and he <i>knows.</i></p><p>He pulls me into his arms. My head against his chest.</p><p>I breathe him in, this safe familiarity.</p><p>I know his scent. His warmth. The strength of his arms around me.</p><p>His heartbeat, beneath my ear, filling the spaces between my own.</p><p>
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</p>
<hr/>
<p>
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</p><p>"Is it possible," I ask, "to feel grief and liberation at the same time?"</p><p>He looks at me the way he did in the park on New Year's. The way that makes me feel <i>seen.</i> "It's what you feel right now, isn't it?"</p><p>"Yes." I pick at the strings of my Gibson. "But I think whatever I'm feeling is too much to be condensed into just two words."</p><p>Tobirama gestures at the lyrics to his new song on his laptop screen. "Words matter. But they aren't always important, Madara."</p><p>I hand him my guitar. "Play me <i>grief</i>," I say. "Play me <i>liberation</i>."</p><p>
  <i>Play me my heart.</i>
</p><p>He does.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Dive</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When I am with Tobirama, I am not myself.</p><p>I am this person wrapped in unrecognizable skin, with a face that knows how to smile.</p><p>I am light. Weightless. The good kind of empty.</p><p>Tobirama is like water. Serene. Powerful. I watch him swim and think he looks so at home here. I like the way water shapes around him. The stroke of his arms. The muscles of his back that bunch and shift with his motions. His legs, these strong, muscular things.</p><p>It's strange, not having anything to do with my hands. Sitting poolside, my feet in the water, without my cigarettes or guitar, I feel naked. Unwillingly exposed. An ugly, open wound, bleeding out.</p><p>Tobirama makes me want to reach out and touch. I want to know the feel of his skin. The hot and cold sensation of his flesh. Want to trace drops of water along his neck, his chest, his stomach, and lower still. I wonder what he would taste like beneath the chloramine.</p><p>I watch him come up for air. He wades toward me, looking at me in <i>that</i> way that makes me want to get closer and run away at the same time. I am prey, caught in the gaze of a predator. Afraid and excited to be consumed.</p><p>I wonder if this is how he looks at Terumi when they're alone.</p><p>
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</p>
<hr/>
<p>
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</p><p>I remember the day I met her.</p><p>Friday night. The ice cream parlor. I remember the way she looked, pressed against his side. Like her body was tailored to fit his.</p><p>I remember thinking she was perfect.</p><p>I remember wishing I was.</p><p>
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</p>
<hr/>
<p>
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</p><p>When I am with Tobirama, I am myself, laid bare.</p><p>
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</p>
<hr/>
<p>
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</p><p>His hands rest upon the edges of the pool, on either side of my thighs, caging me.</p><p>My knees, a hairsbreadth from his hips. I want to wrap my legs around him. I dare not. He looks at me and I freeze.</p><p>"What are you thinking right now?" Tobirama asks. His eyes are dark, searching. I don't know why he's looking at me like that. Like he's waiting for something. Like he sees all that I am.</p><p>I want to say, <i>You.</i></p><p>Say, <i>You're all I ever think about.</i></p><p>My heart. It beats a violent rhythm within my chest. I think about taking the leap and telling him everything. I think about dying, my feelings like secrets constricting my throat.</p><p>Tobirama leans closer. His hair, damp against his forehead. His hands, gentle against the sides of my face. His thumb, brushing my cheek. His eyes…</p><p>
  <i>His eyes.</i>
</p><p>I say nothing.</p><p>And he kisses me.</p><p>
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</p>
<hr/>
<p>
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</p><p>I remember falling in love.</p><p>Again and again and again.</p><p>
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</p>
<hr/>
<p>
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</p><p>I am a mess. I am shattered pieces of something that may never have been whole in the first place. I am flawed. Irreparable.</p><p>Tobirama makes me feel like that's okay.</p><p>
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</p>
<hr/>
<p>
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</p><p>My arms, my legs, around him. I pull him closer. I kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.</p><p>
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</p>
<hr/>
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</p><p>Until I don't.</p><p>I pull away, and it's the hardest thing I've ever had to do. I am short-breathed. My pulse is a frenetic, panicked thing. This is the best-worst thing that's ever happened to me.</p><p>"What about Terumi?" Her name make my insides hurt. It hurts so much, but I have to say it 'cause I don't want to be that person for him. I don't want to be Obito. I don't want to be Rin.</p><p>Tobirama frowns. "Why are you bringing her up now?"</p><p>I stare at the play of light upon the water. I can't bring myself to look at him. "You're in love with her."</p><p>Tobirama's hand is callus-rough and blood-warm against my cheek. He gently caresses my face until I dare meet his eyes again. "Are you in love with Kawarama?"</p><p>The question is so out of left field, so ludicrously incomprehensible I can't help but be indignant about it. "Of course not! What does <i>that</i> have to do with anything?"</p><p>"You and Kawarama — that's what Mei and I are like."</p><p>I stare at him, part stunned, part confused. There is something akin to hope simmering beneath the chaos of my mind. It scares me. I want to have been wrong, but I'm terrified of navigating the unknown terrain that <i>wrong</i> has unexpectedly hurtled me into. "You're not in love with her."</p><p>Tobirama's expression is somewhere between exasperated and fond. <i>"Madara."</i></p><p>I catch his hand in mine, holding it still. <i>"Tell me."</i> I have to hear it. <i>Need</i> to.</p><p>"I'm not in love with her." Tobirama looks at me and I feel undone. Fractured. Whole. "She's not you."</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Us</h2></a>
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    <p>Tobirama doesn't say, "I love you."</p><p>Obito said it all the time.</p><p>
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</p><p>I'm beginning to think I never truly understood what love meant. What it's supposed to be.</p><p>Here's how it goes. You think you know what love is 'cause you grew up learning everything it's not.</p><p>You build this idea in your head and think it's yours, when really, it's just an amalgamation of everyone else's story.</p><p>You hold onto it, so tight it's disintegrating beneath the clench of your fingers, and still you won't let go 'cause you think, "Without this, what am I? What are <i>we</i>?"</p><p>You think you want the fairy tale. Think illusions are just as good if you close your eyes hard enough and pretend to believe.</p><p>
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</p><p>Life isn't a fairy tale.</p><p>And this isn't a love story.</p><p>
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</p><p>What this <i>is,</i> is <i>us.</i></p><p>
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</p><p>It's funny how I think Tobirama wouldn't break my heart.</p><p>Funny when heartbreak is all I've ever known.</p><p>Kawarama thinks that love — or its fucked up version — has made me cynical, but there's a security to being with Tobirama that I've never known with anyone else.</p><p>He makes me feel safe.</p><p>Tobirama makes me understand definitions I never knew existed.</p><p>It's nice, learning these things. Unlearning the world.</p><p>
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</p><p>He doesn't say, <i>I love you.</i></p><p>I don't say it back.</p><p>
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</p><p>I used to think that love was all about change. That it would change me, change the one I'm with, and the world would turn into one of those <i>life is a bed of Indian paintbrushes and rainbow-shitting unicorns</i> kinda places.</p><p>But love, <i>real</i> love, is this freedom to unashamedly, unapologetically be me — flaws, fuckups, and all — and knowing he wouldn't change me for anything.</p><p>
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</p><p>Do I feel <i>forever</i> about him?</p><p>Yes. No.</p><p>I think I've always known that Tobirama would be my <i>forever,</i> even when I didn't believe he could love me back.</p><p>But <i>forever</i> is too finite a term for someone like him.</p><p>Tobirama is ageless. Timeless.</p><p>I think this, watching him run ahead of me. The line of his back, a familiar sight. I know this too well, chasing him the way I've always chased that perfect idea of love, elusive, unreachable.</p><p>Only now, the distance between us doesn't feel so great.</p><p>
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</p><p>Love is being with him and not having to think, <i>Love me. Love me best.</i></p><p>
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</p><p>We're in the living room, Tobirama on the couch, me on the floor.</p><p>Nothing has changed, even if everything has.</p><p>This is what I know.</p><p>Tobirama, guitar in his lap, notebook on the armrest. He is home. He is <i>enough.</i></p><p>"Play this moment," I say. "Play <i>us</i>."</p><p>He does.</p>
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